Thought for the day

The darkest hour is just before you switch the light on.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Half an hour ago
I decided to go with the flow;
But now the tide has turned
And my bridges all are burned.

As the sands of time are running out,
My whisper rises to a shout:
They serve, who only stand and wait,
Helpless in the grip of fate.

And so I ask - no, I implore -
Find me another metaphor.

saturday

It's raining and there is a dove sitting in the tree at the end of the garden. And the dove is facing north. What can this mean? I must look it up in my 'Boys book of portents and omens'

Today is the Grand National. I wont be having a bet. I used to be a gambler but now I have no interest in a wager - of any kind. Funny how something just 'leaves' you. Perhaps instead of desperately trying to give something up, we could just wait until it gives US up.

Ten o clock strikes and I have much to do.

I shall return.

And now for something completely different

ipso facto, virgo intacta; inter alia, genitalia


I couldn't cope

With being Pope,

I haven't got the Latin;

And apart from that,

I'd feel a twat,

Dressed up in silk and satin.


Now, C of E

Is more like me,

But even they wear frocks;

And Bishops wear those gaiters,

Over their purple socks.


In their fancy dress,

Priests seek to impress -

They do it all the time;

But transvestite clerics

Give me hysterics,

Make up your own last line!

Father explains

An hour later, we were all gathered in the drawing room, at father's behest.

Mother, Borris, Elsie, Mrs Brownlow, Lilly, Cook (fuuny but I've never known her real name) and myself.

Father had had a bit of a scrub-up since his sudden appearance in the music room and looked more like his old self - although he had not shaven his beard off. His voice was grave as he addressed the assembled company. He spoke thus:

'First, I should like to wish you all a very merry Christmas, although it is not as merry as one might wish. I am on the run! Yes it sounds melodramatic but there is no other way to put it. I have, as the current parlance has it, blown the whistle, on the organisation for which I work. And these people do not like whistle -blowers.

I was taught, at my old school, that loyalty is the most important quality a man can have, and I have always stuck by this admirable principle. But sometimes one has to question the moral - and legal - implications of what one is being asked to do.

I will not go into details - the less you know , the safer you will be - suffice it to say,   I have spoken out against the recent immoral and, yes, illegal activities of  a certain government department. I say recent because I have been proud to have devouted my life, for these past thirty years, to this department. A department, I may add, that has kept this country safe for us and our children to grow up in.

'Gosh, father, you mean all this time you have been working for the Security Services?' I cried, admiringly.

'Shush George - no names no pack drill, eh?'

I had heard father use this expression before, and had never really understood it. I just knew it meant shut up. So I did.

'This gentleman ,' (and here father pointed to Borris), 'is helping me to write an article for his newspaper exposing these recent activities.

'His name's not Borris, and its the Guardian, ain't it?' interjected cook, rather cheekily.

'Now then, Bessie, no names no pack drill.' Responded father.

BESSIE. So that's her name. I shall remember this when next she is rude towards me. I said this to myself of course.

'Me - I prefer the Daily Mail..' Went on our cook, notwithstanding.

'Well, I take the Telegraph.' said mother, 'It's a jolly good read.'

'I like the Daily Mirror,'  Piped up Lilly, 'And I can do the crossword.

'Shut up! All of you.' Said father. Your reading habits are irrelevant at this time.

I had been going to say that I thought the Observer to be the only real quality newspaper - but I didn't, as I could see father was getting cross.

'Now look here,'went on father, 'Borris (no it's not his real name)  and I will be leaving shortly, because I expect Badger and Quinn to return at any moment. And this time they won't take NO for an answer.'

As if on cue, there was a furious knocking at the front door. Lilly made as if to answer it.

'Leave it!' snapped father, 'They'll have picked the lock in a minute.' And so saying, he grabbed a bottle of Black Label off the drinks table and, motioning for Borris to follow, he made for the window. 'Oh, just once thing,'  he paused with his leg over the sill. 'Since the only male at Christmas Dinner will be my son, I want George to carve the turkey.'

And he was gone. Borris, following close behind.

I was elated. I was now 'man of the house' and had the important honour of carving the turkey. I would not, I resolved, let father down.

The knocking started up again.

Anna returns ???

I've had a mysterious voice-mail from Anna. Very brief. Says she may be coming back for the election!

Now this is strange. She does not have British citizenship so she cannot vote.

When I tried to ring her back it said the number was no longer in use!

What's going on!